


A Fair Price

by OldBeginningNewEnding



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Prince Crowley (Good Omens), Sorcerer Aziraphale, and not the fun kind of experiments either, in which Aziraphale performs a multitude of experiments to a besotted lab rat Crowley, the curse is based on Howl's Moving Castle but the similarities end there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27247564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldBeginningNewEnding/pseuds/OldBeginningNewEnding
Summary: Aziraphale is a reclusive sorcerer—excellent in theory, but rather shite in practice. Despite his inexperience, with a dragon's hoard of tomes, spells, potions, and brews, he believes himself more than capable of carrying out his duty:Finding a cure for Crowley, the youngest prince who has been cursed with a demon’s heart that will consume his own if he doesn't get it fixed.((Which would be quite unfortunate because Prince Crowley fully intends on giving it to this silly occult being.))
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 141
Collections: Trick-Or-Treat!





	1. Blood Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, decided to make this one a two-parter~ This one will be a spooky level 1 for Trickety-Boo: "Spookiness level one has very mild spookiness–a monster depicted in a non-silly way, very minor hijinks and mayhem, very minor “gore” e.g. small cuts and bruises." And maaaybe a smidgeon of Spooky level 2 for one scene c; "Spookiness level two has some actual spookiness! Characters put in real or imagined danger, monsters doing their actual thing, minor violence and gore e.g. broken limbs, non-lethal wounds etc, but no major character death."

Crowley sighed, laying a gentle hand on the sorcerer’s shoulder. “It's all right Aziraphale. Don't listen to them.” The sorcerer remained silent, the quill in his hand trembling ever-so-slightly. He'd holed himself in his quarters again after their latest attempt, no doubt brooding up a storm under the guise of researching the curse further. But, if Crowley were to peek over his shoulder, the notes he'd made were barely legible and the page he'd been studying was dedicated to eradicating a pixie infestation. The prince sat down beside him on the wide cushion, taking both slumping shoulders to face the silly occult being properly.

The silly occult being he trusted with his life and his heart.

“You'll break this curse.” Crowley said simply; not with assurance, not with conviction. It was a simple fact and Crowley expressed it as such. “I know it.”

Those sea-storm eyes met his and Crowley felt his breath hitch at the warmth and gratitude in them. “Really? You truly believe that, Crowley?”

 _'I believe in **you**.'_ Crowley scoffed, turning away with the dizzying realization that Aziraphale finally called him by his name. “Of course! A— _mishap_ or two doesn't mean we haven't gotten any closer to finding the cure!”

Even if the last mishap _did_ decimate the townsfolk’s fall festival. Set the entire display abalze and everything. It would have been rather impressive if it didn't nearly burn down several granaries and a sizable plot of farmland. His brothers were none-too-happy over the incident, but at the very least, Crowley himself and his father hated the taste of the pumpkin anyhow.

Though, what really impressed Crowley was how every sock in the kingdom suddenly went missing—but only the left one. 

Still, it was a small price to pay. “You’re doing everything you can, Aziraphale," the prince reassured. "And best yet—you haven’t given up.”

Aziraphale gave the prince a grateful look and shook the doubts right from his head. “You're right, my dear! And I _won’t_! Not until you’re cured.” The sorcerer turned, giving a sweet smile to the prince that made malicious thorns sink deeper to his heart. “Thank you, Crowley.” It was fine. 

Crowley was used to it anyways. “Any time, ange—Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale shot him a teasing grin at the slip. Again, it really wasn’t Crowley’s fault that he’d hallucinated the pretty occult being in front of him as something more…seraphic after he suffered a mild poisoning episode.

((Crowley had blamed it on that bubbling brew Aziraphale handed to him. It's not like Aziraphale warned him _not_ to drink it.))

“Let’s get to work then!” the sorcerer proudly declared and Crowley found himself smiling at the about-face. If only everything were so simple as keeping his sorcerer happy. “Now, strip naked and lay on that Blood Rune—I've adjusted it this morning so it has even _less_ of a chance of inducing temporary madness!”

Crowley sighed, fighting down a deep, tormented groan. “Sure...sure thing.”

If only everything were that easy indeed. 

* * *

Prince Crowley did absolutely _nothing_ to warrant such a life.

Years spent confined to his chambers, guards and soldiers with readied weapons for the day his heart would be consumed by the curse bound to his royal blood. Peers ostracized him and his family were split between coddling him and plotting his death to save them from the trouble. It was a miserable fate, surely, with half the kingdom in fear of the youngest prince, and the other half looking on with pity.

No, this fate should have befallen his stubborn, power-mad father, King Lucian.

The King had been a ruthless commander, a born leader, and a cutting, clever man—who _really_ should have known that _the Sight_ and _curses_ were not to be trifled with.

Lust for power drove his father to seek knowledge of magical ability; _avarice_ for it drove him to hoard his findings for himself and his own people. _Envy_ demanded all gifted with the Sight be hunted and slain, and in _pride,_ named himself an almighty ruler, above all beings with magical prowess.

In turn, _wrath_ wrought him a terrible fate inflicted on his blood, all starting with the youngest prince—for his heart to be consumed by a demon of _gluttony_ until nothing of him remained.

Their only blessing was that it was a _slothful_ creature, indolently biding its time until the young Prince Crowley was grown, and only then began showing signs of his pernicious sickness.

Throughout the Prince’s childhood, there was a mad dash to find any survivors of the King’s own brutality. Needless to say, there were none who stepped forward in efforts to save the King’s youngest—not with the threats of imprisonment hanging over their heads once the Prince was saved.

After all…

Who would put their _faith_ in the King of Lies?

.

To Prince Crowley’s eternal fortune (or perhaps, eternal torment), the answer to that question lay in the only sorcerer left in the southern lands.

Crowley wasn’t quite sure how they found him or what…“methods” the royal cavalry used to get Aziraphale to agree to research a cure for their ailing prince, but Crowley was nevertheless _grateful_ for the day Aziraphale walked through the palace doors, armed with tomes, a ridiculously wide-brimmed hat that obscured most of his face, and a platoon of disgruntled soldiers behind him hefting a Royal Library’s worth of scrolls, books, and an academy’s worth of potions, vials, vats, and brews _—_

And _no,_ Crowley was not just grateful to look upon the sweetest, smarmiest, most _gorgeous_ being in all of existence (after he took off that ridiculous hat)—heavens no, of course not. 

No, it mostly had something to do with the sorcerer looking upon Prince Beelzebub with a sad click of his tongue. He strode over to the eldest prince and peered at them with a concerned gaze. “My poor dear—look at you.” The sorcerer patted an aghast Beelzebub’s face. “I see the curse has already set—” he murmured, prying the prince’s mouth open and searching inside. He apparently did not like whatever he'd found. “Ohhh dear, _tsk, tsk, tsk_ , I’m afraid there’s not much more I can do.”

 _“Ahem,_ ” Queen Lillium interrupted. “ _This_ is Prince Crowley,” she gestured. Crowley gave a little wave to the ashen-faced man. “ _That_ would be his eldest sibling.”

The man extracted his fingers from the wrong prince’s orifice and stepped away before the prince reared up and attacked. “Pardon me,” he murmured demurely, and Crowley _swore_ that was the moment he fell in love. “But ah…are you sure nothing’s wrong with this one?”

Scratch that—

 _This_ was the moment.

“No, you’re all mine I’m afraid,” Crowley drawled, though he was sure the flutter in his belly was decidedly _not_ from fear. No, especially not with the nervous smile and the absentminded titter of laughter from the man’s lips.

“Very good! I—I am—err…you may call me Aziraphale,” the sorcerer said. “—Your Highness,” he tacked on rather tactlessly.

Crowley found himself amused, entranced, and utterly besotted as his parents murmured amongst themselves beside him.

“Are you sure we should trust him?” he heard his mother whisper to his father.

“He’s our last chance,” he hissed back.

“He’s incompetent!”

“He’s our _only_ option!”

Crowley sighed, watching as the sorcerer cautiously scuttled away from a glaring Beelzebub. “He’s _perfect.”_

* * *

Many moons have passed since then. Nearly a year and the kingdom grew more and more restless. Not only was their Prince in grave peril at the hands of a curse—

But even more so at the hands of a rather inept sorcerer.

Some called it _kismet—_ the King’s price to pay for their kingdom’s bloodied past; the sorcerer may only be biding time for the creature to avenge his fallen people. Some hailed it as a part of the curse: of the parasite dwelling inside the crevices of the prince's corporation resisting and deflecting all manner of counter-curses, spells, and cures placed on him by the sorcerer. And of course, some merely chalked it up to the Royal Sorcerer’s ineptitude.

But Crowley prided himself as being privy to the sole reason why none of the antidotes, elixirs, charms, and hexes seemed to have any real effect.

“Oh…blast it,” Aziraphale sighed, scratching his head in confusion as the candle-flames flickered and the air grew warm—but to no avail. No glowing symbols. No puffs of smoke. No screeching echoes of the abominations lurking beyond this dimension. “Something must have gone wrong again…”

“Double-check the runes?” Crowley gently suggested as he rose from his position on the ground.

“I’ve already done so— _thrice,_ ” he whined.

“Then did you check the incantation?” the prince suggested. “You’ve always had a spot of trouble with your _Sinverrian_ pronunciations.”

“But I _did—_ ” He huffed at the sight of Crowley’s raised brow. Aziraphale pouted, relenting. “…I’ll re-check the translations.”

“Good…you do that Aziraphale,” he murmured, watching with fondness and affection as the sorcerer retreated to the recesses of his reading nook, pulling out tome after tome of various dead, secret, and arcane languages.

Crowley sat up, placing the blade he had hidden back to where he found it amongst the clutter and chaos that made up Aziraphale’s collection. As he dressed himself, he made sure to wipe off the evidence of his tainted blood from its edge and rectified the rune he’d hurriedly defaced.

Aziraphale, nose buried in his books, was none the wiser. 

* * *

Aziraphale startled himself awake, dazed and confused as to his whereabouts until he looked down at a drool-sodden page. The sorcerer made a face before drying it with a quick spell. He rubbed his weary eyes and looked upon the various vials of sand-streams, indicating the night’s late hour.

He sighed. He didn’t understand what he was doing _wrong_.

Sure, he never quite made top marks with his practicals, but Aziraphale was the best in his class at theory—that _had_ to account for something! He just didn’t understand why things failed so _horribly—_ and he found himself making such _careless_ mistakes as well! An extra drop of dragon's blood added to his brew, mislabeling his bottle of banshee screams for siren songs, even misplacing his staff for three whole days, only to find the sodding thing in his second-favorite reading nook, tucked beneath his writing desk. He was _better_ than this. 

He _had_ to be.

For Prince Crowley. 

Aziraphale moved to get up from his chair, the screech of wood against the stone floors causing a groan to sound from behind him. The sorcerer let out a yelp before realizing just who it was dwelling in his quarters at this hour.

He made his way over to one side of the room and hefted a thick quilt from among the masses of pillows and duvets stacked high on top of a bed that was utilized for storage rather than sleeping. Picking a plump pillow and tucking it under his arm, he made his way over to the slumbering prince, sprawled atop the sectional at the corner of his favorite reading nook.

The sorcerer looked down at Crowley’s face, free of the usual frowns and scowls marring his handsome features during the day. Instead, the prince slept on, nary a care in the world.

Not even for the danger dwelling deep within the depths of his heart.

Aziraphale sighed. It was late. Any more time at this hour devoted to seeking another cure would only lead to mishap and miscalculation. “Prince Crowley? My dear?” he whispered, giving a firm shake to the prince’s shoulder. But the prince only coiled into himself, half-heartedly batting Aziraphale away. The sorcerer shook his head as he draped the thick blanket over the prince and laid a pillow for his head to rest. “Honestly, Your Highness…” he muttered, swallowing back the affection in his words. “You should return to your own quarters. It’s late,” he chided as he pulled the covers over Crowley’s feet.

Crowley gave an appreciative (or affirming) hum and the sorcerer felt his heart soften at the sight.

 _‘What am I doing?’_ he thought to himself. He couldn’t—he _couldn’t_ afford to get attached. After he’d completed his task, he was to be released from King Lucian’s kingdom and allowed to live the rest of his days in harmony and solitude. Just as he intended, just as he liked.

_Right._

It was important to keep in mind that Aziraphale wasn’t welcome here; he was not a _guest—_ he was here to perform a job (and right now, he was performing rather _poorly_ ) and leave.

If he was lucky.

 _‘One thing at a time,_ ’ he reminded himself. _‘First and foremost—my objective is to save Prince Crowley.’_ Right. That’s all it was after all: A duty. A purpose. A goal. A—

Aziraphale caught himself absentmindedly carding his hands through the prince’s fiery locks before freezing and silently hoping he hadn’t roused him awake. A few trickles of sand slipped through the sieves of time and the sorcerer let out a breath of relief from the silence that followed. The prince did not stir even as he withdrew himself and stood. If he had, _well..._

Hopefully Aziraphale still remembered how to use that smoke bomb for a quick escape.

The sorcerer meandered towards the failed runes from earlier that day, the vats and vials of draughts and elixirs he’d concocted the week before, the innumerable spells, charms, and exorcisms he’d performed months prior—

All amounting to _nothing_.

...and a few adverse effects that ranged from benign to near-fatal. His heart grew heavy at the mounting failures as he breathed out a sigh. _‘It’s late,’_ Aziraphale thought wearily with a tired stretch to his aching muscles. He hobbled over to his bed and, against better judgment, collapsed atop the mattress, thus sending a small avalanche of books and trinkets hailing from the shelves below.

Aziraphale groaned amongst his clutter and vowed to have things straightened by morning.

* * *

Morning came and morning went and the clutter remained there all the same.

Crowley had departed (or rather, his footmen had dragged the prince out of his quarters at some ungodly hour when Aziraphale was still mid-meditation-coma) for some hoity toity royal event or other. It bought Aziraphale at least a few hours of dedicated silence and focus to research the prince’s condition and hopefully find a cure.

But without the prince's company, the sorcerer felt his eyelids grow heavy around midday from leafing through volume after volume of hexes, jinxes, curses, and plagues. Aziraphale stretched his legs and puttered about, looking to fix himself a pot of tea before he (quite literally) stumbled upon a rather interesting find. He bent down and plucked the hefty text that had been beneath his foot. Aziraphale eyed the tome curiously, the dark red leather encasing it unfamiliar to the sorcerer. “Strange…I don’t recall this volume,” he murmured as he wiped away the years of dust coating the faded text inscribed upon the cover.

The sorcerer felt his heart thunder within the cage of his ribs as he translated the title—a tome dedicated to dark arts, specializing in strange and arcane curses! It must have been unearthed when that hill of clutter had assaulted him the night before!

((Perhaps Crowley was right in that he _really_ ought to have sorted through his belongings prior to beginning research...))

Aziraphale felt a swell of hope, giving a delighted wiggle, and quietly thanked the Goddess of Fortunes herself for this find. He sat down on the edge of the tattered mattress and flipped to the index before humming in triumph.

_Blood Curses. Chapter 13._

* * *

Crowley gave a half-hearted wave to the affronted lady, currently fleeing from the palace with an indignant huff at the lukewarm and lackluster (if not terribly _cold_ ) audience she’d received from the youngest prince.

The King and Queen were displeased but hardly surprised by their youngest’s reception. It was difficult to fault their ailing son so: it was understandably challenging enough to find peace and hope in his future given his grave circumstances. Even more so to keep returning to the Royal Sorcerer with dwindling hopes again and again after each failed attempt.

In turn, not many suitors were happy to find themselves with their betrothed cursed. 

To which, the King could only grumble, “You could have at least asked for her name.”

“She announced it and I cared not for remembering it,” Crowley drawled. “And by the sounds of it, neither did you, father.”

It was the same song and dance as always. The King merely shrugged before trudging off, the Queen in tow with the rest of the staff and servants trickling behind them. Things could wait. If they held on just a _mite_ longer, the youngest prince's heart may be saved and their kingdom could find peace. Until then, they'll keep taking any lesser daughters from noble blood until the circumstances shifted to their favor. 

And yet, some were not so easily placated by pie-crust promises. Beelzebub stared at their youngest brother with a glint of question in their eyes before Crowley announced, “Well. If that’s all that’s required of me, I’ll be off to the Eastern Wing to check up on Aziraphale’s progress.” The eldest prince frowned as the Crowley's footmen were dismissed as he made his exit.

Against better judgment, Beelzebub trailed after him.

The eldest prince was hardly fazed as they found Crowley waiting at the shadows of the corridor for them. The cold stare they were met with, however, was a tad more unnerving. Nevertheless, cursed or not, Crowley _will_ learn his place. “Brother,” they greeted. “I advise you to take caution—”

He narrowed those emerald eyes. “I’m plenty careful, _sibling—”_

Beelzebub twisted his arm. "Not careful _enough,_ it would seem. Not enough to save your weak heart from this curse, and certainly not enough to keep it from that sham of a sorcerer." Crowley grimaced as they glowered at him. The fool did not even deny it. “Do not forget who it was that set a _curse_ in _our_ blood—set a _curse_ in _your_ heart—”

“ _Justice,_ if you couldn’t remember,” he sneered. “For our _father’s_ deeds—the deeds that _you_ will inherit and a curse that _you_ will carry in your line if Aziraphale is not able to sever its bonds in our blood once and for all. Do not _forget_ who it is that holds the key to my survival.”

The eldest prince scoffed. “Of that, I am most uncertain. Suspicions are mounting, little brother—your sorcerer is a sham, or worse yet—completely inept _._ ” And yet, their own brother deluded himself into putting his faith to the charlatan. 

Maybe even promised his _heart_ to him. 

Beelzebub glared as Crowley wrenched his arm from their grip and began walking away. They tsk’d. “If I had it my way, _brother_ , that imbecile would have been slaughtered and harvested for his Sight." They watched on as their brother halted in his steps; they chuckled in satisfaction. "That ridiculous fool is more liable to _kill_ you than save you.”

Pleased with having the last say, the eldest prince turned and stalked off. At the very least, they were able to confirm their suspicions. Their foolish, young brother... _fraternizing_ with the sorcerer? Their father would have much to say about that. Especially since the eldest prince knew full-well their King had no plans on letting the sorcerer out of his kingdom alive.

Regardless of whether he was successful in breaking the curse or not. 

Prince Beelzebub frowned. Something coiled in their gut, a sensation stiller than silence filling the empty corridor. The air grew cold. The torches snuffed to smoke and the lamplight above them dimmed. Hairs on the back of their neck rose and a trill of fear slinked down the eldest prince’s spine. They heard it then: 

A growl.

The slice of a chill against their back barely afforded the eldest prince with enough time to react before the onslaught. 

Beelzebub found themself lifted a foot in the air, a firm grip to their neck keeping them aloft as their back was slammed to the smooth, stone walls. The creature before them glared back with hellfire, _demonic_ eyes, elongated claws gripping at their soft throat, and too-sharp, and too-many teeth filling its snarling mouth. It let out an inhuman snarl and Beelzebub found their life flashing in the twin mirrors of those soulless eyes.

“ _Don’t you **dare** call him that_.”

It was not their brother’s voice. This creature was no longer their brother.

Their breaths came out in short staccatos as they scratched and scrabbled at the creature’s arms for release, for oxygen. The eldest prince writhed and struggled, but the creature drew no blood and bore no signs of injury.

Panic seized the prince as the vice clamped over their throat tightened; they thrashed and thrashed but to no avail against such an inhuman creature. Instead, they choked back a scream as their vision blurred and black seeped into the edges, the glimmer of those sharp, _sharp_ teeth burned into their memory.

“S- _stop_ —” they gasped. “C-Crowley— _stop—”_ Tears streamed down their face as their thoughts grew clouded and desperate. “ _I’m—s-sorry—"_

 _Anything_ to escape such an ill fate.

The golden amber of those creature's eyes bled back to their rich emerald green and _Crowley_ released his grip. Prince Beelzebub slid down, landing in a heap before they scrambled to gain distance between themself and their brother.

As the lamplight brightened in the corridors, Crowley could only stare at them, expression a blank slate. Beelzebub stared at the void right back, unsure if the spell was truly broken as they could only look back through the bend of the hall, a good distance away from where their _brother_ stood.

They flinched at the slightest movement from the youngest prince, Crowley turning to face them with empty eyes. Empty—but human. Crowley nodded at them before walking off in the other direction, sluggish in his steps as Beelzebub calmed the erratic hammering in their heart.

Crowley looked human enough _._ Even then, they should have ran. They were lucky that the thing that had taken over Crowley hadn’t come hounding after them, a predator easily overtaking weakened prey. But Prince Beelzebub had to make sure— _had_ to be certain of one thing and one thing only: 

The thing parading as their brother still had its claws, talons gleaming and razor-sharp in the firelight as it rounded the corner and made its way up to the Eastern Wing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more to come very soon c;


	2. Faith and Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait~

A stone-drop of dead settled itself at the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach. “No…no, it can’t be—I…” He flipped furiously through the tome, checking back to the index, the references, the tiny, scrawled footnotes at the bottom of the page, with rising panic. “There must be some other way—”

There had to be a mistake—it couldn’t—things couldn’t possibly just _end_ like this, not to him, not to Crowley who’d done _nothing_ to deserve such a fate—

Aziraphale bit back a sob. 

But curses knew no justice. Curses cared not for heart, bravery, courage, much less morality. It belonged to power and intent alone, thriving on means and consequences. There was no fanfare. No fairytales. No lesson to be had, no heroes to be sung, and no villains to be purged.

“Aziraphale?”

The sorcerer startled, slamming the tome closed and sending loose pages flying. He shuffled awkwardly to the entrance of his quarters, quelling his hammering heart. “P-prince Crowley?”

He sent Aziraphale a chiding look as he leaned against the doorway. “Just Crowley, remember?” The prince’s eyes narrowed, a frown tugging at his lips at the sight of the sorcerer, likely flustered, out-of-sorts—“Something the matter, Aziraphale?”

—or worse yet, pale from dread. “I…no, just…” He floundered uselessly before gesturing to the tome in his hand. “Doing more research, that’s all.”

Crowley smiled at him, though his eyes belied a hesitant concern. “Anything useful?”

The sorcerer swallowed. “I…I believe I found something quite promising, yes,” he nodded absently. His hands trembled. He refused to meet the prince’s gaze.

Which in turn undoubtedly spiked the prince’s suspicion. “Are you al—”

“I should get started on the preparations.” Aziraphale shuffled away, setting the tome aside amongst the rest of the clutter. “Y-yes, it won’t be long now, dear. Just a _few_ more things I’d like to try—”

Aziraphale paused.

He’d nearly crossed to where his staff and countless sets of vials sat at the other end of the room before realizing he hadn’t heard the other’s footfalls behind him. He glanced back. The prince hadn’t moved from his position by the threshold. “Crowley…?” he asked tentatively. “Why are you just standing there? Come in!” 

This time, it was the prince that refused to meet his eyes. Instead, he stalked closer, gait almost shuffling as he kept his hands behind his back.

The torches that hung on the walls and candle flames lighting the various reading nooks were smothered in a chilly gust, snuffed out as the prince approached, shadows trailing after him as he maneuvered silently through the clutter. There was…a strange energy about him. The sorcerer wondered how he failed to scent it in the first place. An acrid sort of air, the slightest fizzle of dark energy, growing closer and closer as the prince lumbered towards him.

Aziraphale felt a trill of unease slip down his spine. He vaguely wondered if he should turn back for his staff.

He shook the thought from his head. This was _Crowley,_ after all—and he may need him. With that, the sorcerer took a few cautious steps forward, determined to find what was ailing the prince this time.

And what exactly he was hiding behind his back.

“Is something…?” he started, but the words died in his throat as Crowley brought out his hands from behind him. The sorcerer’s eyes widened, letting slip a squeak and an, “Oh, _dear_ …”

Crowley gave him a sheepish smile with teeth that matched the pointed, blackened ends of his claws. “Ah…yes. A bit of assistance, if you will?”

* * *

King Lucian did not intend this sort of life for his son.

But it was not the bitterness of regret that he tasted on his tongue, nor was it the burning of remorse he felt as he held his youngest child, watching the grotesque, _pulsating_ scar that ran along the center of his chest, the boy marked for death—or an even worse fate.

There was no other way for her to have cast the curse, not after she had been bled dry of her magic. The hag must have been a crone of the Fates, cackling in her death throes as she turned her Wheel this way and that, staining the boy with a blind eye and spiteful malice as her Sight was extracted and her body left to burn on a pyre. 

~~But as King, it was his _right_ and he will not _bow_ to such a vile, lowly creature.~~

Given the chance, would he have traversed a different path? _Change_ his fate by leaving magical prowess to those born with Sight alone? _No_. He could not bring himself to grieve the breakthroughs the Royal Academy had uncovered through their research, the unmatched strength of his armies, the wealth he’d accumulated, and the spread of his kingdom throughout the entire Southern lands—he would have done _anything_ and everything to progress his people, to build his kingdom to the greatest heights known to humankind.

Given the chance, he’d do it all again. Even if it meant cursing his own line. Even if it meant dooming his own blood.

Even as he lay there, heart encased in ice as he received the news he’d long expected and accepted. King Lucian let out a grave, soul-deep sigh. “Are you certain of this, my child?”

“Yes, father,” Prince Beelzebub said as they knelt before the King’s throne. “The sorcerer has failed us.” They gingerly touched their throat, the red lines and blue bruises staining their skin, blooming like dark flowers as the eldest Prince breathed a heavy, grievous cry. “That _thing_ is no longer my brother. It is no longer your son.”

* * *

“There you are…” Aziraphale murmured, holding the _human_ hand in his as the glamor took effect. Crowley gave an experimental stretch of his fingers curling them within Aziraphale’s palm. Even then, red lines appeared from where Crowley’s nails dug into the sorcerer’s flesh.

Crowley instinctively drew away, but Aziraphale held firm, gently patting his hand. “It’s all right. It’ll just take some getting used to.” He sighed. “It’s not much but…it will have to do for now.”

The prince gave a rueful smile. “Right.”

A frenzy of thorns curled around Aziraphale’s heart. He shouldn’t—he mustn’t—

“For when you find the cure,” the prince finished with a light grin, one that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

He—couldn’t lie to Crowley. “Your Highn—Crowley…if I may…” Aziraphale started, gently, softly. The sorcerer sucked in a breath. “I…I know why the cures never worked.”

At that, Crowley nearly leapt out of his seat. “Y-you do?!”

Aziraphale nodded, fighting hard to contain himself. “Yes. It took me so long to realize—but I know now.” He bit his lip, the neutral expression he maintained beginning to crack at the surface. But it was his voice that fractured at the sudden and solemn look upon the prince’s face. “Oh, _Crowley_ , I—”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand in his, gently lacing their fingers together. The sorcerer froze. “I don’t want you to go.”

Aziraphale blinked. _What_.

And then suddenly, the prince was kneeling before him and—oh dear, he hoped his face wasn't nearly as red as all this burning made it out to be. “That’s why I kept sabotaging your— _our_ experiments.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth. _What_.

But then Crowley was looking at him, far too close and far too earnest, his hands clasped around Aziraphale’s, and a fire in those lovely eyes that made flutters akin to dragonwings kick up a storm in his stomach. “If—when you found the truth…you’d leave. Leave this wretched kingdom—and leave me behind as well. I…I couldn’t bear the thought…” Which in turn made the sunbright warmth he felt whenever Crowley was nearby nearly scorch the sorcerer on contact. “Well, that or my father would have you killed for your Sight, which also would have been far from ideal. I needed to work on a plan to get us both out of this, you see.”

Aziraphale picked his jaw up from the floor.

“Escape routes can be tricky this time of year with the majority of our soldiers patrolling the highlands…”

 _Well_.

“We can make a break through the forest towards the mountain pass if need be but we’d have to get through the kingdom bastions first—”

That was a lot to unpack. And Crowley needed to know—needed to know Aziraphale’s own heart on the matter, (if Aziraphale could get the _damned_ thing to stop hammering and doing embarrassing jigs behind his ribs for one measly second) but—that all had to wait. Aziraphale fought down the bubbling joy, light and warm and fitting to burst as the gravity of their situation took precedence. Even if it killed him to say, “Crowley…I had no idea you were behind all this, but that wasn’t the point I was trying to make.”

Crowley nodded, not quite registering the words, but upon doing so, those lovely emerald eyes of his widened before he stilled completely. He looked up to Aziraphale in what was akin to utter horror and earth-splitting mortification. “ _Oh_.”

And _bless_ him, Aziraphale was ready to give his life for this man. He pressed a kiss to the prince’s hand, watching with delight at the roses that bloomed across his cheeks and the wonderstruck spark in his eyes. “Yes. _Oh_ ,” he chuckled, turning away just as the prince closed his eyes and leaned in closer to him. “But we’ll talk about that later. Right now, you need to know—”

There was a commotion outside. A stampede of footfalls and clanging armor before the doors to his quarters burst open. **_“HALT!”_ **

“What in the—!?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened as at least a dozen sharpened blades were pointed at the pair.

With quite a number more directed at Crowley. “Oh…I might have landed myself in a spot of trouble, by the way,” he said with far less remorse than one ought to have with 3 spears aimed at one’s throat. 

_“A SPOT OF TROUBLE, YOU SAY?!”_ Aziraphale hissed as some of the men parted to make way for King Lucian himself.

He sneered at the two and while the king was never more than cordial towards him, his glare was downright glacial as he waved him off. “Sorcerer Aziraphale…we shall deal with you later.” He gave a snap of his fingers and suddenly, Aziraphale found himself hoisted by the arms. “Guards—take him away. His Sight shall be harvested for another time.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened at the announcement. “ _What—?!”_

But he could do little else as he was herded away. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Crowley, though his cries and flailing were largely ignored by his captors. The burning against his skin— _silver,_ he recognized with mounting panic—from the men’s armor made for a bit of a challenge to wriggle out of their hold, even with magic.

A sickening worry sunk down to the pit of his stomach as he was forced out of his quarters. Aziraphale only hoped that Crowley could buy himself some time—escape if the prince was able to. And as for Aziraphale himself… 

The sorcerer took a breath and gave a silent prayer to whichever deity was listening for a run of luck, a pluck of courage, and a stroke of genius to get them both out of this.

* * *

The king circled the beast, the silver chaining him breaking the spell the sorcerer had cast and revealing the claws his eldest prince had described.

He didn’t want to believe it. Of course he didn’t—this _wretched_ thing had been masking himself with the face of the son he dearly loved, after all. King Lucian hardened his eyes as the creature glowered back at him, an infernal _grin_ dancing upon his lips. “Demon…how long have you been wearing my boy’s skin? How long have you paraded about in our mortal realm under the guise of a king’s son?”

“Oh, _father_ …” it growled, low and inhuman. The guards were upon him at an instant, ready to defend their king. But even Lucian himself could not help the grievous sob that racked through him as it spoke: _“There was never a boy to begin with.”_

* * *

While it was true that the Royal Family had placed their hopes in the Sorcerer Aziraphale to break the curse, it wouldn’t do to lack a contingency plan. From the very beginning, a team of Academics and Researchers vested in the ways of magic and the occult were formed should the sorcerer be unable to carry out his duty or ultimately fail in producing results.

The organization was not meant to be a last-ditch effort to save Prince Crowley.

No, it was meant to destroy the beast he had become.

“You will meet your end here, demon,” King Lucian announced as he looked down upon it from a podium some distance away. 

Crowley looked about him, eyeing the silver chains that bound him and the ritualistic circle of runes carved onto the stone ground he was pinned to. He gave a half-hearted tug, unholy strength forcing the metal links to groan.

There were gasps about him as one of the links came close to loosening. He barked out a dark laugh. “Are you sure it will hold me?”

“More than,” the king sneered. 

At that, Crowley erupted to fits of laughter—if such a noise could be called that. The sound painted the walls with a blackened dread. “I taste your lie, _father_.” And though he could not see the old king himself, he could almost hear the quickened heartbeats, almost scented the sweat on his brow. “You are unsure. Your faith wavers.”

 _“SILENCE!”_ the king bellowed, but even then, the creature only continued to laugh.

More alarmingly, the creak of metal joined in tandem. “You know it will not hold me,” the demon taunted. “Not before you complete your counterfeit rituals.”

King Lucian swallowed. He looked to the Academics at his side: their ashen faces, their tense shoulders. His men held their weapons against the demon from outside the witching circle, careful not to disrupt the sigils. His captain, Prince Beelzebub themself, was among them, their sword trembling ever so slightly.

All the while, the _sick_ abomination continued to cackle in glee. Its fangs glinted in the firelight, eyes now a deep, amber color— _Hellfire,_ thought King Lucian—the skin peeling away revealing naught but a rotting center, a _damned_ soul.

And a power that threatened to end his bloodline, to ravage his kingdom to waste.

 _Justice,_ the dying witch had shrieked as she breathed her last, though her Sight was purged from her body, her lingering hatred casted a bloodred light upon his son, tainting his blood, something with thorns violently rooting itself right into the very core of his heart.

But no…the old king refused to believe it. It was not _justice_ there, with its blade-sharp claws and crescent-moon smile.

It was a _demon—_ born of a witch’s hate and desperation. “Your false Sight is only a mockery of true power,” it jeered in hisses and growls. 

Perhaps a desperation that can only be vilified by its own kind. “Then…perhaps we are in need of a true Sight then.” King Lucian called to his men. “Bring the sorcerer here.”

* * *

Aziraphale had at least 7 spells in store for just this occasion. After all, Prince Crowley wasn’t the only one plotting escape plans. Through his months in the palace, he had carefully charted out its bones, learning passages and underground gateways should he ever find himself in a similar position—

Thankfully, Aziraphale had no need to enact any of those plans. Not when the burliest of soldiers dressed in holy metals seized him by the arms and dragged him down to dungeons that even his meticulous maps had no markings of.

When he was brought to the rooms befitting a ritualist’s nightmare, he gave no notice to the soldiers, the spectators, the king and the harrowing, _harrowing_ scent of _death_ that permeated the room in a haze. Not when the prince laid there in dire need of rescue. “Crowley!?” he cried, doubling his efforts to escape their grip.

Eyes of fiery gold turned to meet his own, but the voice was utterly Crowley’s when he called out, _“Angel!”_ in return. 

The men took him to the center of the room and dropped him where he stood by the prince’s side. Aziraphale let out a gasp at the state they’d left Crowley in—shackled and chained to the stone floor as more and more demonic energy flowed from the scar that ripped open from his chest.

“Sorcerer,” the king called. “Today, you will fulfill our contract.” He gave a gesture to the prince, struggling against the chains, skin blackened and raw from where the holy metal touched. “I am willing to overlook your incompetence if you grant me this: free my son of this demon’s possession.” Aziraphale startled as he looked upon the bloodlust in the king’s eyes. “In exchange, I offer you pardon for conspiring against the crown.”

 _“He_ _liesssss_ ,” Crowley hissed, the points of his teeth gleaming from torchlight as he continued to snarl. 

_“SILENCE!”_ the king bellowed. He turned his gaze to Aziraphale. “The only way to save my son’s soul is to vanquish that which lives within his bones.” Aziraphale tore his eyes away from Crowley, a heaviness in his heart, the burden of the truth he carried as he looked upon the old king. There was not a hint of compassion left in his eyes for his son. “Do it. And I _swear_ , upon my throne,” he said as he collected himself, calmly, evenly, diplomatic as always—

—just like the day he’d come to Aziraphale’s home, caging him like an animal before the sorcerer revealed his Sight to avoid torture and slaughter.

_“You will have your freedom.”_

Crowley looked to him, those unearthly eyes gazing upon him intently. “Can you put your faith in the King of Lies, Aziraphale?”

“Would you rather put your faith in a _demon?”_ the king countered.

The sorcerer sucked in a breath. It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to weigh his options at all.

“Well…” he muttered, getting up and dusting the dirt off his robes. “If you want me to do an exorcism, then _you_ need to shoo,” he said, gesturing at the offending knights with their silver blades. He took a critical eye down at the sigils and _tsk’d._ “Oh, these runes are all wrong! Give me a brush,” he demanded with a snap of his fingers to the nearby occultist.

The group glanced at one another in affront but at the king’s hardened glare, relinquished the necessary equipment.

The Academics gathered and observed as the sorcerer made hasty work of painting over the carved stone with strange, arcane writings of his own in a perfect circle, encasing the bound demon. The Academics murmured to one another. It must be working—after all, even the demon stopped its struggling.

“There we go, just a touch of that and…” Aziraphale stood back, admiring his penmanship. “That ought to do it.”

“These runes are unfamiliar,” the lead researcher challenged with narrowed eyes.

Aziraphale scoffed, straightening his robes. “Well of course they would be—you won’t be finding translations to the eldritch dialect of Aletheian at the Royal Library.”

At that, Crowley chuckled. “Do I have to strip naked while I lie there too, Aziraphale?”

The king raised a brow as somewhere off to the side, Prince Beelzebub groaned in disgust. _“No,”_ the sorcerer said primly. Then, “Maybe.” He paused, turning back to the prince with an exasperated expression. “We’ll see. It seems you’ve already contracted temporary madness anyhow.”

“ENOUGH OF THIS,” King Lucian demanded. He brought his fist down on the podium, letting out a deafening thud. “ _Sorcerer—_ I have graciously given you the option to spare your own life. Do not fail me again or there _will_ be consequences. Remember: you’re surrounded here. And given your frank ineptitude, I would think _twice_ before brandishing your magic against me.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” he said placidly, placatingly. “Absolutely—perish the thought!”

“Good,” the king growled. “Begin. _Now_.”

“Pushy bastard, isn’t he?” Crowley muttered.

“Yes, I see where you get it from,” Aziraphale whispered back, brandishing a tome he’d summoned.

_“Oi!”_

“Well demon,” the king seethed, quite ready to slay the sorcerer where he stood after the ritual was complete. “Are you ready to meet your fate?”

The demon gave a dreamy sigh, eyes trained on the sorcerer at his side. “I believe we’ve already met.”

“Get on with it!” the king commanded with revulsion. _Vile, lowly creatures._ “And sorcerer, if all goes awry…”

Aziraphale stiffened at the feel of a blade’s tip digging at his back. Crowley snarled low, hellfire gaze burning bright against the eyes of what used to be his eldest brother. Prince Beelzebub gazed impassively back. 

The sorcerer nodded. “You have my word, Your Highness.”

With that, Aziraphale pressed his hands to the circle, the sigils emanating a bright glow upon contact. For the briefest of moments, Aziraphale brought his eyes to Crowley’s and mouthed, _Break free_. 

The sorcerer began his incantation as the prince roared, the silver chains bending and groaning as he writhed and thrashed about. Inhuman wails filled the heavy air and the soldiers retreated as the atmosphere electrified with raw, magical power. Even Prince Beelzebub hastily backed away as the situation—and the magic—grew more and more unstable.

“It’s working!” the king exclaimed as he gazed upon the tortured look on the demon’s face. “It’s—”

There was a snap of metal.

Then a second.

Then a third.

And then the sorcerer was dragged to the center of the circle, clawed arms grasping him tight as the demon let out an earth-shattering shriek as the final link was broken.

A blinding light filled the room and the essence of _burning_ followed with a resounding, thunderous crash.

When the brightness subsided and the smoke cleared, the king was met with the sight of scorch marks outlining two figures within the ruined, fading circle. Two figures that were no longer in the room, their essences wiped completely clean. Perhaps even from existence. The Academics hung their heads in disappointment at the lost opportunity to harvest the sorcerer’s Sight. Prince Beelzebub glanced warily about the room, expecting the demon to come crawling out of the shadows at any moment.

But as for King Lucian, the day was beginning to set and with that, he had a name to bury and a secret to crush under his heel from the rest of the kingdom. _An accident,_ he’d call it. A ritual gone wrong by the sorcerer whose life was taken in exchange for his son’s. 

“Well,” he said, wiping his hands off his sweat and of the situation. “I suppose that takes care of that.”

* * *

“That which is done out of love is always beyond good and evil.”

* * *

Aziraphale calmed his heart as the smoke cleared, his senses returning to him after getting his molecules scrambled. Transportation runes were finicky at the best times and downright impossible when there was no Waypoint to guide them, but the sorcerer was willing to bet that getting his atoms dispersed through the ley lines would have been a much more pleasant form of execution than having his Sight forcefully extracted.

He took in the view around him: the settling dusk outlined by trees, the mountains peeking over the horizon, and the position of blinking stars just surfacing from the edge of night. Aziraphale’s hands itched to summon his maps. If all went well, his ruse would buy them ample time to run now that the kingdom believed them dead. They needed to travel light, and it wouldn’t do for his belongings, likely to be carted off by the Royal Academy to be dissected and appropriated, to suddenly go missing now and then.

He chose a select number of tomes from his library, only the rarest ingredients for his brews, and thought better than to summon his staff. Calling forth and pocketing only the most essential of his collection, mere crumbs compared to all that he’d gathered, the sorcerer drew a long breath. With a heavy heart, Aziraphale murmured an incantation and snapped his fingers.

 _Let it burn,_ he thought, his hoards of books and troves of knowledge—his heritage, his people’s secrets—scattering to ash upon his “death.”

A groan sounded beside him and Aziraphale swiveled around, finding the Prince facedown in a pathetic heap on the dirt, claws twitching at his side. The sorcerer gave an inward sigh of relief, but not without an outward scowl on his lips. “Honestly Crowley, what were you thinking?!” Aziraphale hissed as he brushed the soil and leaves off his robes.

The arrogant thing had the gall to wheeze out a laugh before wincing in discomfort. Fast Travel was quite the gut-gurgling experience for first timers, after all. “Thinking of a bloody brilliant plan, that’s what.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes before offering a hand to help him onto his feet—minding the claws of course. “Your _bloody brilliant plan_ being tricking your father into believing you've been consumed by the demon?”

Crowley raised a brow, a toothy grin on his lips. “And how are you so sure I’m _not_?”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, steadying the Prince—well, _ex-_ prince, now—to his feet. “You don’t _smell_ like one, for starters.”

Aziraphale ignored the dubious look sent in his direction, as well as the pondering, “You know what demons smell like…?” that followed.

“And…” the sorcerer continued, “If you _were_ a demon, you would have devoured my soul on sight.”

Crowley batted his lashes. “Who’s to say I’m not trying?” he said, voice not-quite his own.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale chided, keeping a firm hold on his waist as Crowley wound his arm over his shoulder; the pair started towards the closest source of water in their vicinity, lumbering along the forest with the maps to guide them. “This is serious. We need to get you treated.”

There was a sobering silence at that.

Crowley continued to lag by his side, but gone was the playful teasing and flirting banter from before. Aziraphale once more felt the heaviness in his heart, creaking against the cage of his ribs at the knowledge he now carried. The burden of it settled on both their shoulders as they meandered through the wood, making the quiet moments count.

“Treated, hm?” Crowley finally said. “What happened to _cured?”_

Aziraphale hesitated, just for a moment, before prodding. “How long have you known that there was no cure?”

Crowley gave a bitter laugh; the sound fell flat on the ground, splattering as they ambled onward. “It talks to me, sometimes.” Aziraphale glanced curiously at him as Crowley's expression grew pained. “Tells me truths I don’t want to believe. And lies that I do.” Aziraphale sucked in the quiet gasp that followed, heart aching at the admission. “It’s hard to tell which is which sometimes...heh, another reason why I foiled and fouled your best laid plans…”

Aziraphale knew the burden of the curse was a great one, but Aziraphale hadn’t known the creature had been tormenting Crowley for _years._ “Oh, my _dear_ …”

 _“Blood curses are far more powerful, far more pernicious,”_ Crowley murmured, reciting what must have been an age-old taunt replaying over and over his head for years. _“They cannot be broken. They can only take on another form.”_

They reached the river now. It was flowing quietly but the stream was strong, the waters pure. Aziraphale looked skyward to find a solemn moon beginning to rise above the indigo horizon. It would have to do.

“Any form is better than losing your heart to a demon of gluttony,” the sorcerer assured. 

Crowley gave an empty laugh, staring at his reflection in the waters. Teeth and claws gleamed back at him like knives; his eyes were still the same, at least. But he didn’t know for how long. “Do you honestly believe that?”

Aziraphale stood by him, laying a hand on his shoulder. The touch forced Crowley to look away and cast his gaze on the same, kind eyes he knew he surrendered his heart to. “I’d rather take the chance,” he said, voice firm and resolute, “than do nothing and lose you completely. Trust in me, Crowley. _Please._ ”

If he even wanted it, knowing it was damned from the start.

But Crowley nodded all the same, more than ready to put his heart, faith, and fate in Aziraphale’s hands. “Okay then,” he said. “Let’s get started.”

* * *

Somehow, it always ended up with Crowley stripped naked onto some cold surface. Usually it was the stone floors of the palace. The rushing, near-frigid waters were an unpleasant change. The bright side to this turn of events was that he now had Aziraphale joining him.

The sight of the other’s soft, inviting skin was enough to warm his blood at the very least. “Aziraphale?” Maybe even made him a bit brave.

Aziraphale paused in his preparations, moondrops highlighting the silver of his hair, the blue of his eyes. “Yes, dear?”

He was almost too much, too _beautiful_ , for a heart to bear. Without a second thought, Crowley closed the distance between them, catching Aziraphale’s lips in a petal-soft, blood-thundering kiss, pressed skin to skin, mouth-to-mouth, and heart to heart.

He drew back before the sorcerer could taste his desperation, his hunger, before he began to hope for more, before _greed_ demanded he _take_ more—more than he could possibly ask for. “You know. In case that was the last time I’d ever get to do it.” So instead, he nuzzled against Aziraphale’s cheek, noting with a happy flip of his stomach that the sorcerer had wound his arms around him in turn. He cherished the still moment, embedding that tiny, _perfect_ eternity to his mind. But it wasn’t before long that he noticed Aziraphale a bit _too_ quiet and a bit _too_ stiff. “You, ah…all right there?” And regrettably, not in the fun way.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, continued to gaze out to the great beyond, either having a vision of some sort or his soul retreating to the astral plane from sheer fright. “ _Yes_ ,” he finally managed to croak out. “Fine. Just fine.”

Crowley nodded, swallowing a bitter lump in his throat. “Okay. Good.” 

Right. _Definitely_ not how he wanted that kiss to go.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, turning to him, face _burning_ in hues of peonies and roses. “Good. _Okay_ ,” he faintly echoed, a dopey, lovestruck look in those lovely eyes of his.

And Crowley laughed, knowing his face was reddening much the same, a dizzying kind of feeling setting off tempests and storms behind his ribs. “For the record, I love you.”

Aziraphale made a wounded noise, burying his face in the crook of Crowley’s shoulder. “Are you _trying_ to kill me?”

Crowley gave a teasing grin, drawing his angel to his chest, arms wrapping around him. “Is that what my love does to you?” he murmured, pressing kisses across his cheeks, atop his hair, making sure to claim every inch of him as his own.

“No…” Aziraphale muttered, letting out a tortured, petulant, “It’s what my love for _you_ does to me.”

And that alone was enough to quiet the tension, the hesitancy, the fear of what came in the morning light.

“I’m ready,” he murmured, stealing one last kiss to Aziraphale’s lips.

The sorcerer pressed closer to him, gales in his blood as Aziraphale deepened the kiss and returned Crowley’s tight, _desperate_ hold, the space between them too small to make room for doubt. His kisses tasted of lightning and summer storms and Crowley was so, _so_ frighteningly in love that what else could he do but give this man his life for little more than piecrust promises?

Except—they weren’t just that. Aziraphale gave his _word_. And Aziraphale already made it abundantly clear that he could cast great and terrible things with his tongue and command Crowley’s heart and spirit with his mouth alone.

The sorcerer drew away just as the stars aligned above them while some danced behind Crowley’s eyelids after drawing a shuddering breath. Aziraphale rested his forehead against Crowley’s, eyes closed as he gathered his wits and his courage. “Then let’s begin.”

Aziraphale started the incantations in an ancient, lyrical language that made the invocations out to be more like song than commands. He closed his eyes, Aziraphale’s lovely voice filling the quiet forest air, and Crowley felt a warmth spreading from the scar along his chest. He felt heavier as time went on, dazed in his thoughts despite the searing, _piercing_ sensation he felt hooking its claws to the very depths of his soul, catching hold and pulling wildly.

A grip loosened its hold, a vice opening, unfurling, petal by petal, as the thorns were plucked from its roots.

Then, it was painful. Beyond anything he’d ever experienced, ripping a wound open, stitch by stitch, peeling back the layers of a scar to unearth the meat and sinew beneath. He let out a shriek, a sound that was not wholly his own voice but one that was familiar to him, whispering and cackling in the back of his mind, the dark crevices of his thoughts and nightmares.

All breath was drawn out of him and for a second—just a second—he could see it: hollow, Hellfire eyes, crowned with bloodied horns, its skeletally thin, ashen body armed with too-long, too-sharp claws and rows and rows of needle-pointed teeth with its maw hung open in a frenzied scream.

And then Crowley suddenly felt himself lowered into the water, sound and color falling away, feeling featherweight in the waters, clean and purer than snow.

* * *

Aziraphale held his breath as he lowered Crowley beneath the water, ripples and bubbles floating to the surface. A murky blackness erupted from the depths as he completed the rites. Soon, it was washed away by the current. All he could do then was wait for Crowley to emerge.

Then, something much larger crested over the surface of the river where Crowley laid and Aziraphale sputtered as waves crashed against him from the violent commotion. His breath caught in his throat at the sight that greeted him after wiping the water from his eyes.

The creature glared back at him with Hellfire, demonic eyes, elongated claws gripping at his own soft, plump hands as it waded unsteadily, its skeletally thin body swaying from the river’s currents.

It opened its mouth revealing too-sharp, too-many, needle-point teeth, but it was _Crowley’s_ voice as he asked a timid, hesitant, “So…how bad is it?”

Aziraphale choked back a sob, drawing him close, the warmth of Crowley’s human heart beating solidly within his chest, against his own. “Perfect. You’re _perfect._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Friedrich Nietzsche
> 
> The attempts to cure Crowley wouldn't have worked because Aziraphale's spells were directed towards breaking the curse, which is not possible. Here in the last scene, he is instead focusing on the demon, not the curse itself. And just like Crowley said, the curse took on another form despite Crowley's heart being purified from it :') 
> 
> I'm over on [new-endings on tumblr](https://new-endings.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to say hi~


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